The Great Game Postscript
by SeenaC
Summary: John's personal journal. Takes place immediately after TTG.  This begins my overall story arc.  Rated "T" for mild profanity.


A/N: So this is immediately after "The Great Game". Apologies for being all over the place in my time line. You can consider this as the first installment of my larger work. Thanks for the kind reviews of the stuff previously posted. Would love further reactions/feedback.

Personal Post-script to "The Great Game"

After all the report-taking, interviews, and medic checks at the scene, we eventually made our way back home via cab. Neither of us said anything on the way. I was not just bone tired, but my leg was aching again as well as my shoulder. When we got out, I found I was limping a bit. It was just after sunrise.

I followed Sherlock upstairs, anxious to sit down. He flopped down in one armchair and I collapsed in the other and closed my eyes. We sat there in silence for a few moments. I wanted to go to bed, but was feeling too tired to make the effort to do even that. I was also thinking an aspirin or two were in order. Perhaps something stronger. Then, Moriarty's smirking face materialized in my mind's eye.

I opened my eyes and met Sherlock's looking at me from the other chair. Except that he wasn't looking at me as much as looking _through_ me, with an expression of fear that made me actually turn around to see if Moriarty was somehow lurking behind me. Of course he wasn't, but when I turned back around I noticed Sherlock was shaking. I quickly got up and went to him.

"Sherlock, are you ok?" No response. I clasped one of his hands, it was icy. Then, his teeth began chattering. I checked his pulse, very rapid, but thankfully strong.

"Sherlock, I think you might be going into shock. I want you to move to the couch," I said as I began to lift/push him up from the chair. I half-led half-carried him over and put some cushions under his legs to elevate them.

"I'll be right back." I ran to my room and grabbed my medical bag and the blankets off my bed. I came back downstairs and checked all his vitals, including listening carefully to his lungs, heart, and abdomen. All through this Sherlock continued to tremble uncontrollably, his eyes still focused far away.

"Sherlock, you are in shock. This is very important, LOOK AT ME!" I commanded. His eyes finally focused on my face.

"Sherlock, did you sustain any injury you have not reported?" He shook his head. I continued, "If you have, I need to know, because you could be bleeding internally." I hadn't detected anything through my stethoscope, but I wanted verification. He continued to shake his head. "OK then, I just need to get you warm and relaxed. Try to take deep breaths." As I spoke I was wrapping him up in my blankets.

"Jjjohn...nnno...Jjohn...nnno..." he began to chatter.

"Shhh...don't try to talk right now, just breathe," I said in my most soothing-yet-firm voice.

"Jjohnnn...I almmmost gggot you kkkilled..."

"Hush, don't talk. Breathe."

"Jjjohn..."

I was becoming more concerned. If I couldn't calm him down, he was only going to get worse. I considered giving him a sedative, and I started looking through my bag.

"Jjohn...I alllmmmmost..."

"Sherlock!" I abandoned the search for a drug and instead clasped one of his icy hands. I started rubbing it between mine. "It's ok...I'm fine...we're fine...we're safe...it's over." I continued murmuring similar things to him, trying to warm his hand. Anything to try and get him quiet and calm. Eventually it seemed to work. The trembling lessened and finally stopped. His hand was still cool to the touch, but was no longer ice cold. I continued to monitor his pulse and blood pressure and was assured that all was returning to normal. Sherlock's eyes lost the frightened stare, returned their focus to our sitting room, and then closed in exhausted sleep.

I heard Mrs. Hudson's step on the stairs and so I got off the couch and met her with my finger to my lips.

"I just heard on the news..." she whispered. "Are you boys ok?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, thank you. Sherlock just fell asleep on the couch so I want him to rest for awhile."

"Right. I'll check on you boys later." And she tiptoed back down the stairs.

I returned to Sherlock's side to check on him again, but he still seemed to be fast asleep. I had wrapped him tightly in my blankets so it seemed unlikely that he would do much moving around. I dropped back into my chair, determined to keep watch, but of course I was asleep within minutes.

I awoke some hours later, very stiff and uncomfortable. Sherlock was still sleeping but I went to check on him anyway. When I took his wrist to check his pulse he opened his eyes in alarm and reflexively pulled his arm away.

"It's me, Sherlock. I just wanted to make sure you're ok."

"Don't do that!" he snapped. He took a deep breath and said more calmly, "Sorry John...you startled me."

"It's ok. How do you feel?"

"Trapped." He was struggling in the cocoon of blankets.

"Here, let me help unwrap you." In a minute very rumpled Sherlock emerged. I couldn't help smiling at him with his wild curls and hopelessly disheveled suit. The cleaners were really going to wonder what had happened to that suit.

He saw my smile and I saw his lips tighten with displeasure. With an air of wounded pride he grabbed one of the blankets, wrapped it around himself as if it were the shreds of his dignity, and stalked off to his bedroom. _Well,_ I thought with a mixture of amusement and relief, _he seems back to his normal self. _

As for myself, I was ready for a shower and bed. _Darn!_ I thought as I looked at the couch with my bedding. _I'll have to re-make my bed before I can sleep._ Unlike Sherlock, I can't sleep on the couch.

I took a nice, long, hot shower which gave me the opportunity to review the last 24 hours. By the time I was finished, I had come to the following conclusions: 1) Sherlock and I were going to have a serious conversation about his decision to sneak off and attempt to confront Moriarty on his own. I had a feeling that a certain older brother of his was also going to have a word with him on this. 2) Sociopath? _My arse!_ Sherlock might be fooling himself, but he would never be able to fool me again. But after debating with myself, I decided that confronting him with that would be a bad idea. I was more than half convinced that his nervous collapse earlier was due to him being forced by Moriarty to face his own vulnerability. Assuming that Sherlock even understood what had happened, he was going to need time and space to come to terms with what he had learned about himself. Forcing him to talk about it would probably be counterproductive or even damaging. 3) Sherlock and I apparently had the ability to communicate wordlessly. That could certainly come in handy in the future, although I hoped to goodness it would never have to be used as it had been last night: to say a final goodbye to each other after wordlessly planning a self-immolating attack.

It was a scene that I'm sure will haunt my dreams for the rest of my life. No worse than my recurring nightmares about Afghanistan, though. Maybe even better, actually, as long as it doesn't include Moriarty's grinning, evil face.

I finally finished in the bathroom, gathered my bedding from the couch, and headed to my room to remake my bed. I then tumbled into it and fell into a mercifully dreamless sleep. I didn't worry about needing to go to work the next day, as Sarah had already called me. She saw the news reports and told me to take the rest of the week off.

After that, life returned to normal. By the time I got up the next day, Sherlock was completely back to his old self. The only odd thing that happened (of course, when you're talking about Sherlock, how does one define odd?) was a few days later.

I came downstairs in the morning after a chilly night to find Sherlock in the kitchen working with his microscope.

"Sherlock, can I have my blanket back? The one you took the other day?"

"No."

I blinked. "No?"

No response.

"Sherlock," I began to protest.

"Trust me, you don't want it back. I used it in an experiment."

My first response was to shudder, imagining the gruesome purposes to which it may have been put. Chemicals? Poisons? Body parts? Then, I flickered over to annoyance.

"Sherlock! That was _my _blanket!"

"It was old and worn out anyway. What does it matter?" he asked in a tone of indifference.

"That's not the point! It was mine. Plus, it was cold last night!"

He sighed and looked up. "So I'll replace it."

"Thanks, but you really need to learn to respect other people's property."

"I didn't figure _you _for being sentimentally attached to a _blanket_, John."

I sighed in frustration, but dropped the issue.

Later that day, I found a new, obviously expensive blanket neatly folded on my bed. I sighed again but comforted myself that at least I had extracted a promise from him that he would never attempt to take on Moriarty on his own again, which was more than Mycroft had been able to do.


End file.
